


Climate Change

by feverbeats



Category: Drood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this is against God, Crisparkle has been following the wrong god.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Climate Change

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think it counts as a tradition if you only do it twice, but when _Bat Boy_ happened, I wrote fic, and people wanted me to write _Drood_ fic.

  
"Reverend Crisparkle," Neville pants, his thin hands twisting the sheets into cords as he clenches his fists.

If this is against God, Crisparkle has been following the wrong god. He shoves the blasphemy out of his mind as his runs his hands over Neville's back, savouring the feeling of his skin.

His young charge is an unexpected bright spot in the reverend's life, bringing warmth and change from Ceylon. Now, in the darkness of his rooms, Crisparkle can barely remember what Rosa's mother looked like. Neville, it turns out, is all too eager to learn whatever Crisparkle has to teach him, which is admittedly very little. Why, he hasn't even touched anyone since--But no matter.

Neville, however, seems to have an endless supply of inventive ideas. His body tenses under Crisparkle, his arms shaking from supporting his weight. He spits something under his breath, and Crisparkle doesn't think it's in English. He gasps and grabs Neville's hip, shocked at how much he wants him.

Neville makes a sound in the back of his throat, low and dangerous. "Please," he says, but far from sounding desperate, he sounds angry.

"Of course," Crisparkle mutters. As if he could stop.

Neville bucks back against the reverend's body, shouting something inarticulate. He's an unpredictable lover, wild and strange and something even bordering on alarming. Crisparkle has never felt quite prepared, and even after all these months, he's still often provoked into long silences afterwards, contemplating their situation while Neville rises immediately to bath and dress himself.

Tonight, Neville lingers afterwards, perhaps too tired to stand instantly. "Thank you," he mutters under his breath, his voice muffled by the arm thrown over his face. He sounds tired and not angry, for once.

Crisparkle wants to say that he is the one who should be saying thank you, but he doesn't. Instead, he simply pats Neville's arm and says again, "Of course, lad."


End file.
